


First Movement

by Kryptaria, Mitaya



Series: If You Were... 'verse outtakes and cut scenes [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, If You Were Mine outtake, M/M, Sleep is still boring, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-09 23:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mitaya/pseuds/Mitaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For once, John sends the first text.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Movement

**Author's Note:**

> Infinite thanks to Mitaya, for responding to my panicked request for help when this fic insisted upon being written, and to our secret he's-not-even-in-the-fandom-though-secretly-we-know-he-is beta.

**Wednesday, February 24, 2010**

_Sherlock? -JW_

The text chimed just as dawn was seeping through the sitting room window. Sherlock rolled onto his other side and picked up the phone from the stack of boxes beside the sofa.

_Yes, John? -SH_

He debated staying on the sofa before deciding that this was unusual enough for him to want to be fully alert. Tea, then.

_How are you? -JW_

Sherlock stared at the screen as he crossed the living room. John never bothered with trivialities like this.

_Fine. Are you alone? -SH_

A terse yes would tell Sherlock that he might _not_ be alone — the possibility existed that John was texting him under duress. Otherwise, John would disregard the question as he so often did.

_Yes, of course. -JW_

_Sorry to wake you. I wasn’t thinking of the time. I’ll let you get back to sleep. -JW_

He was typing fast — much faster than usual, except when he was upset. Sherlock stuck the kettle under the tap and started filling it as he typed his response.

_You didn’t wake me. I don’t like sleep, remember? -SH_

_Your body does. Tried letting it have its way recently? -JW_

_Of course not. It’s a terrible waste of time when I could be thinking instead. You know that. -SH_

_And yet, half of the time you insist that you’re bored. -JW_

_At least time goes by when you’re sleeping. -JW_

Sherlock turned off the tap and dumped some of the excess water, wondering what he was missing.

_I prefer to make better use of my time. Why sleep when I could be working on a case, solving a problem, or texting you? -SH_

_Ah yes, because those entertain you completely. Remind me again why your landlady has your skull? And bow? -JW_

_I stole them back. She can’t hide anything from me for very long. I’m much more clever than she is. -SH_

Sherlock smirked as he sent that, wondering what kind of reaction it would provoke. He put the kettle on the counter and went to find a rag to dry the plug.

_How DO you endure us mortals? -JW_

_You’re different. You’re not like them. You’re like me. -SH_

_Oooh, flattery. Tell me some more. -JW_

Sherlock plugged in the kettle, staring at the text in confusion. Did John think he was being insincere? Flattery was usually another word for lies, or at least exaggeration. His phone chimed again.

_Sorry, didn’t mean to be so flippant. Bit short on sleep. -JW_

_I know you. I know how you think. You could never be boring, like the rest of them. -SH_

_The rest of them? -JW_

_Everyone. I prefer you over all the rest of them combined. You’re interesting. I want to know everything about you. -SH_

He sent the text without thinking, before it occurred to him that it might be too much. John had to know — didn’t he? Of course he did.

_Well. That’s certainly nicer than what woke me, so I’ll ignore the stalker overtones to that statement. -JW_

Stalker? Sherlock disregarded that — John was probably being playful, in an odd way. He leaned against the counter, glancing at the front window. The sky was barely light; the street lights were still on. John usually went to sleep between three and four. It was a Wednesday, which meant John had most likely been at work just a few hours earlier.

_How was work tonight? -SH_

_Relatively quiet, all considered. Nothing too strange. -JW_

Sherlock desperately wanted to ask what a dominant would consider ‘strange’ — the internet had been entirely unhelpful there — but John didn’t know that Sherlock knew. Or did he? He might’ve noticed Sherlock’s homeless informants. They would be terribly out of place in the posh district where John worked.

_That depends on what you consider strange, doesn’t it? -SH_

_Well, back when I was in A &E, THEN I saw strange. No, last night was good. You? Been up all night as usual? -JW_

He didn’t know. That was interesting. Sherlock wondered if he should finally let John know that he knew the truth. If he was Moriarty, then he probably had enemies who could find him just as easily as Sherlock had.

_Not all night. I was working on a new composition. The skull is a harsh critic. -SH_

_Oh yes, they’re known for it. The ones for the Michellin stars are the worst. -JW_

_Those are for food and hospitality, though. I play the violin. -SH_

_Though cooking is similar to chemistry. Not nearly as fun. -SH_

_So it’s not that you can’t cook, you just choose not to. -JW_

_Most of the time, yes. Sometimes I start to, but neglect to finish. Cooking is boring. Though I have started to turn off the oven before leaving. -SH_

_Was that your idea or your landlady’s? -JW_

Sherlock grinned, typing out a response one-handed as he searched for a mug that hadn’t been used to store anything toxic.

_My landlady’s. There were a few incidents. She sometimes brings me a plate when she cooks too much. She won’t leave it in the fridge, though, after the foot. -SH_

_How unreasonable. Who doesn’t keep feet in their fridge? -JW_

Sherlock sat down at the table, shivering a bit at the unaccustomed feeling of warmth that filled his chest. He _knew_ John was perfect; this just confirmed it. Really, John should have taken the flatshare. Sherlock wouldn’t depend on Mycroft’s stranglehold on the trust fund, and they could work together on experiments. As a doctor experienced in wartime injuries —

He blinked abruptly, whispering, “Oh!” The things John had seen in war must have affected him. Perhaps that was why he’d taken up criminal activities as a hobby.

Carefully, he considered his possible responses as he went to the living room, forgetting about the tea.

_She’s gotten better about it. It just took a bit of time. -SH_

_Well, I do approve of her feeding you. Perhaps I’ll set up a schedule with her, so I know you’re being taken care of properly. -JW_

_If you were mine, I wouldn’t need a schedule. -JW_

The warmth was back, but with it came a sense of frustration. He was trying to help John, not the other way around. His violin was still out from earlier, when Mrs. Hudson had interrupted his playing. She’d told him to wait for a decent hour of the night, but night was over. The day started at sunrise.

_You would like her. She’s not as smart as we are, but she’s smarter than most people. She’s better than an alarm system. -SH_

He put down his mobile on the back of his chair, picked up the violin and bow, and quickly woke his laptop. He’d been composing on paper, though he had a suite of software for composition, recording, and mixing. He started it now.

_Landlady as alarm system, that’s a new one. Wakes at the drop of a hat then? -JW_

_Good I didn’t move in then. I’d disturb her a bit much. -JW_

Sherlock scowled at his mobile. That wasn’t his intention at all.

_She would like you. She likes ME. Of course she’d like you. -SH_

_Erm. Not quite what I meant. Just that I have nightmares sometimes, not the nicest way to wake others._

Sherlock started a new file but kept the recording paused, idly scratching at the violin’s strings as he considered a reply. He didn’t think John lied to him in his texts — evasion didn’t count — but whenever he forgot to sign his texts... that, Sherlock had learned, was significant.

_If you were here, you wouldn’t have nightmares. -SH_

He sent the text before he could reconsider, deliberately putting the phone down, thumb turning the volume down to mute. He took a breath, wondering why his hands were shaking just slightly, and started the recording as he set the bow to the strings.

The composition was unfinished, not even a complete movement. It took less than two and a half minutes to record, and though he was tempted to continue and improvise, he ended it where he’d stopped his notations. Then he put down the violin and bow, started to compress the audio file, and picked up his phone to see if John had responded.

_I think... I would like that._

Sherlock exhaled, relieved, and turned the mobile volume back on. He plugged in the data cable and typed a response as his programs automatically synchronized.

_May I send you a file? -SH_

_Of course. -JW_

It took a minute for the file to compress. Sherlock told himself it was ridiculous to be nervous. He was entirely confident in his skill at the violin, and he knew that studies had proven that music — especially classical music — had a calming effect. But John had never heard him play. What if he didn’t like it? What if he preferred some other type of music?

He transferred the file without an accompanying text and paced back to the kitchen, where the kettle had been whistling, probably for some time, though he hadn’t heard it in the background while he’d been playing. He kept the mobile close at hand as he made tea, dumping in several spoonfuls of sugar, trying to remind himself that it would take time for John to download and actually play the file.

He stirred in the sugar and tossed the teabag on the counter, and still hadn’t received a text by the time he was back in the living room. He checked the volume on his phone, but it was still up. Three bars of signal. No, four. Why wasn’t John answering?

Did he hate it? He might not answer at all, if he did. He might just... _stop_. Not say anything, not answer any more texts, not give Sherlock another puzzle to solve.

He tossed the phone down on the desk and quickly sent himself an email. The mobile alerted him at once.

So it wasn’t his network. It was John. He wasn’t answering.

Finally.

_Oh Sherlock. Is that what you were working on? It's lovely. -JW_

_I mean it, you know. -JW_

_Sherlock? -JW_

The texts came in a rush, one after the other. Network error, presumably on John’s end. Sherlock could fix that — he had people who could hack John’s provider and give his data priority. But that might draw unwanted attention, especially if he used his mobile for any illicit communications. Not worth the risk. At least he’d _answered_.

And he liked it.

_Sorry. -SH_

_Network error. -SH_

_No return texts. -SH_

_From you, I mean. It happens in central London. -SH_

He typed his responses quickly, not wanting John to think Sherlock was ignoring him, firing off each one in a rush before he told himself to stop. John couldn’t type very quickly, and Sherlock hated making him feel inadequate about that.

Then, realizing he hadn’t actually answered the question, he typed:

_Yes. I started composing it last night. It’s just the first part of the first movement. There will probably be three, perhaps four. I haven’t planned it. -SH_

_I look forward to hearing it in person then. -JW_

Sherlock’s first thought was _now,_ but he realized that wasn’t what John was saying. John had been trying to sleep, after waking from a nightmare. He wouldn’t want Sherlock there — not now. Would he? His text implied that he wanted to hear the whole piece, after Sherlock was finished with the composition, but that could take weeks.

Nervously, he went for a cautious answer:

_I’d like to play for you. I’ve been composing and playing all my life. -SH_

_Play me to sleep at night? -JW_

_And play you back to sleep if you wake. -SH_


End file.
